Betrayal
by bluebel703
Summary: 1x04 - Sam is angry after receiving John's voicemail and realizing that his Father is alive and well and just couldn't be bothered to call. Dean knows that when Sam is angry at John, he leaves. (Gen) Rating is for swearing.


**A/N: Set after Sam and Dean receive John's message at the end of 1x04 Phantom Traveller**

It had been so long since the last blow-up when Sam had grabbed his bags and left for Stanford that Dean had almost forgotten how angry Sam could get at their Father. He thought he remembered, he certainly could recall the words Sam and John had exchanged, but it wasn't until they listened to John's outgoing voicemail that Dean realized he had, in fact, forgotten the rage.

"He couldn't just take the time to pick up the phone and call us, to tell us that he is OK," Sam said for the fourth time in twenty minutes. "I mean we drop everything, _everything_ , we don't know if he's hurt or dead, and he can't even pick up the fucking phone."

Dean drank his beer silently. Sam's anger had attracted the eyes of the couple at the next table. They looked over and Dean stared back at them until they looked away, embarrassed.

"He has his reasons," Dean said softly, as he said so many times before. And he believed that, he really did. His Father was one of the oldest hunters out there, one of the most successful, and that was because he was one of the most careful.

"How can you defend him?" Sam asked gripping his beer tighter.

Dean knew Sam thought he just did whatever John said, and he did, but it was for reasons more complicated than blind obedience. He and John had been a team in a way John and Sam never were. They had been in league to protect Sam, to keep the family sputtering forward. John had needed Dean's help, not Sam's and there was an understanding that arose from that partnership.

"Let's talk about something - "

"If there's an emergency call my son, Dean," Sam said, mimicking John's voice with a snarl. "He didn't even ask you."

"He didn't have to," Dean replied but here was no stopping this train. Sam was mad at Dad. Dad wasn't here. There was only a matter of time before Sam got mad at Dean.

"Do you think he knows you got me from Stanford?" asked Sam. Dean shrugged, but yes, he did think so. Dad tended to know these things.

"I mean what if you didn't get me?" Sam said. "What if I didn't leave? Who would be watching your back? Who would you be calling? If there's an emergency call my son, Dean. Fuck! I mean he had to know you were looking for him, that you were freaking out. He can't even call you."

"Sam, it's fine," Dean said shaking his head a little, even though it wasn't fine. There were times as teenagers, even as children, when Sam became irate at John on Dean's behalf: when Dean had been injured on a hunt, when Dad didn't leave enough food money and Dean had steal, when Dean dropped out of high school. Dean had always been both touched at his brother's anger on his behalf and frustrated that Sam had made him even angrier.

"Do you think he knows about Jessica?" Sam asked. Dean finally looked up from his beer bottle and nodded. He had called Dad himself, and even if he hadn't, a woman dying in a suspicious fire, anyone dying at Stanford, anything happening around Sam, John would know.

Sam laughed bitterly. "He didn't even call."

Sam was hurt, Dean realized abruptly, close to tears at the thought that John knew what had happened and hadn't picked up the phone.

Dean looked down to the empty glass in front of him. It was easier when Sam was angry. When Dad hurt Sam, that's when Dean started to resent Dad himself, and Dean didn't want to resent him. It made things too complicated. Sam shook his head and signaled the bartender to bring more drinks, which he definitely did not need.

"Let's just call it," Dean said, but the drinks were already being poured. Sam had two shots in front of him. He took one than another.

"It's his fault Jessica died," Sam said, simply, declaratively.

"Sam - " Dean said warningly, because he knew how poisonous thoughts like that were.

"If he had told you where he was," Sam said, his haw clenched. "You wouldn't have thought he was missing and you wouldn't have come to get me, and I never would have left Jessica alone that weekend, I would be getting ready for my Stanford interview, and Jess wouldn't have -"

He pulled up short, rage and grief fighting for position on his face. Dean threw down a couple bills.

"Let's get out of here."

"That's all you have to say?" Sam said, as though Dean was part of John's public relations team and not another son who too had been unceremoniously cut off. Still, he followed Dean through the crowd and out of the bar.

"Dad isn't the reason Jess is dead," Dean said spinning around on Sam when they got outside. "That is on that yellow-eyed bastard and no one else. Not you. Not me. Not Dad. So you're going to stop thinking that bullshit right now, you hear me?"

The connection between Sam and John – family, love, obligation, fondness, whatever one called it – was already so fragile, Dean was positive it couldn't take the weight of Sam holding Dad responsible for Jessica's death. Sam sighed and looked across the street to nothing in particular, his breaths slowing as he calmed. Finally, he nodded.

"How are you not pissed?" Sam asked, not for the first time in their relationship.

"I am pissed, Sam," Dean said. "You think I haven't been thinking what you're thinking? But I am glad I'm pissed, man. Dad is alive. He doesn't even seem hurt, the rest of it, I can handle. I'm just – I'm glad he's OK."

The hard set of Sam's face softened.

"Me too," he admitted finally, and Dean could tell that he meant it even if he hadn't thought of it that way before.

"Let's go back to the motel," Dean said leaving _before we fight about something else_ unsaid.

Kittanging, Pennsylvania was not a large City by any standards, but Jerry had set them up in a more-than-decent hotel in the center of town. The leaves on the trees were changing and the air was crisp, but bearable. Dad was alive, Sam had calmed down, and Dean was almost enjoying himself until:

"So, what do we do now?" Sam asked. "I mean if Dad's not in trouble do we keep looking?"

Something twisted in Dean's chest. "As opposed to what, Sam?"

"I don't know," he said quietly, but Dean did. It had only been a couple of months. Stanford would take Sam back barely any questions asked. Hell, if he hauled ass fast enough, he could still probably interview for law school.

They were both thinking the same thing and the silence between them, which was usually comfortable, became stifling and continued until they went to bed.

It was the stillness in the room that woke Dean up. Sleeping alone was a rarity for him Dean had spent more nights with Sam sleeping in a bed next to him than he had slept alone. If Sam wasn't snoring across the room, Dad was. If Dad or Sam weren't there, there was usually a girl.

But when Dean blinked awake at 3 in the morning, there was no sign of Sam except for tousled sheets on an empty bed.

"Sam?" he called reflexively even though he knew Sam was gone. The bathroom door was open, the room empty, and Dean stood stupidly in the middle of the hotel. Sam was not the sort to start his night out at 3 AM, especially not these days. Anxiety replacing confusion now, Dean dialed Sam's cell phone. It buzzed on the night stand. Dean stared at it for a long moment.

It was a rule, established from the moment they got cell phones, that those cell phones be attached to their hips at all times. Sam wouldn't leave it accidently. Then Dean noticed the bed which no longer had Sam's dirty clothes piled at the foot of it. The clothes were gone along with the duffel bag.

A different sort of pain now. Dad was fine. Dean remembered how reluctant Sam was to come, how he only came because there was the real concern Dad was hurt or worse. Now…

Dean went to the bathroom. Sam's toothbrush was still there but nothing else was.

Sam was gone.

Sam had left him.

Sam had chosen to leave him. Just like Dad had.

Sam had left his phone and given Dean no way to contact him because he didn't want Dean to contact him.

Dean's lips were numb. The night Sam left for Stanford, John stormed out of the door 10 minutes after Sam did. Whether he was intending to go after Sam or not, John ended up going on a multi-day bender while Dean lay in bed and stared at Sam's empty bed beside him, hearing the sound of the door slamming over-and-over again. He'd pull out his phone and consider calling Sam. The knowledge that, if they really needed to, they could talk to one another, was the only thing that kept him sane. This time, Sam hadn't even left him with that.

He was going to take his Dad's approach this time. He emptied the mini-bar, gulping down airport sized bottles of Canadian Club and vodka. When he made it through the hard stuff, he opened up the bottle of wine.

Fuck Sam.

Fuck Dad – no – Fuck John because a Dad doesn't leave his kid without a word of goodbye.

Fuck this family. Dean was the only one who seemed to care about it. What was the point?

It wasn't about missing Sam, though he did miss him. It was the betrayal - was that right? Dean wasn't sure, he was a little drunk, but they word sounded just angry enough. Betrayal.

The first time Dean had been seriously hurt on a hunt in years, he was sixteen, salting and burning the bones of a four-year-old whose Father had beaten him to death with a baseball bat. The baseball bat had found Dean, dislocated his shoulder and beat him unconscious. He blacked out in the basement of the kid's house and woke up in the motel room, a belt in his mouth and John setting his arm.

"One sec," John had said, before yanking hard on his arm for the second time. Even with the belt in his mouth, Dean screamed out.

John had clapped him on his good shoulder and wrapped Dean's arm in a rough splint then went to double check the salt lines on the windows. Looking back, in terms of injury the concussion and dislocated arm wouldn't even make the top 20 worst hunting injuries Dean had sustained, but it had been the first, and the pain was more shocking, more terrifying, than the injuries that followed.

A hand wrapped around his uninjured forearm, gentle in a way no one had ever been with Dean since his Mother died.

"It's OK, Dean," Sam whispered, not letting go of Dean's arm. "You're going to be OK."

Dean's breath hitched. He looked at Sam and Sam smiled gamely at him, even though Sam wasn't quite about to cover the fear lurking in his expressive eyes, Dean's heart rate slowed and the pain became something manageable. It would happen time and time again on hunts: Dean hurt, Sam taking the pain away.

Sam never wanted Dean to have a brave face. He gently pushed down every wall John taught Dean to build up and made him believe he was a human-being, a valued one worthy of love and gentleness, not just a tool or a soldier. Then he left and took all that with him. _Betrayal._

His depression turned to anger and he ripped the phone out of the sockets and threw it across the room.

Fuck Sam.

Fuck Sam.

Fuck –

The door opened.

Sam.

He was holding his duffel bag and…Dean's duffel bag? Sam looked at the empty bottles of alcohol, the phone across the room, then Dean.

"You OK?" Sam asked with such genuine befuddlement that Dean wanted to hit him.

"Fine," Dean said sharply. Sam looked at him for a moment then sighed, dropping on the edge of the bed opposite Dean.

"I'm sorry, man," he said. "What I said about Dad and Jess. It was out of line. You're right. It's not Dad's fault. He'd never want – I know – I know you miss him too and you're right, the important thing is that he's OK."

Dean just kept staring at him. The crease in Sam's brow deepened.

"Dean," he asked, his voice taking on that soft, gentle quality that never failed to soothe Dean. It enraged him now.

"Where the fuck were you, Sam?" Dean said.

"Doing laundry," Sam said, now talking like Dean was a little slow. For the first time, Dean looked down at the duffel bags Sam put on his bed. Sam unzipped one and passed Dean a pile of his folded, clean laundry.

"At 3 AM?"

"I was too keyed up about Dad to sleep," Sam said, frowning a little at Dean. "I just needed to do something. The laundry is 24/7 here."

"Your phone?"

"I thought I put it in my duffel. I did realize until I was one my way back," Sam said his eyes narrowed now. "Dean, did something happen? Did Dad call?"

Dean was rapidly coming to the conclusion that there was no rational reason to be mad at his brother. All hunters dealt with sleepless nights and Sam was not the only one who had done a load of laundry in the wee hours of the morning, but the mental whiplash was too much for Dean.

"You just left, Sam," Dean said. "You didn't take your phone. You didn't tell me where you were going. I woke up and you were gone and I thought - "

He trailed off, looking away from Sam who looked confused and then contrite.

"You thought I left," Sam said softly, pained.

"Whatever," Dean said. "Next time take your fucking phone."

"You thought I left," Sam repeated, accusatory now, no longer pained. "My phone was here, Dean. What did you think I just burned a phone so you couldn't contact me?"

There was almost humor in Sam's voice, as if the idea was laughably absurd, and then he looked at Dean's face. "Oh my god. You thought I slunk out in the middle of the night and burned a phone so you couldn't contact me?

Dean didn't respond. Sam swallowed and looked around the room again. He walked around and sat on the edge of bed opposite Dean. Their knees were almost touching.

"You really think I'd do something like that, Dean?" he asked sounding as tired and sad as he looked.

Dean didn't respond. He felt embarrassed now. And drunk. His head was spinning and he wished Sam was still doing laundry.

"I know it hurt you when I went to Stanford - "

"Oh god - "

"No, Dean just listen to me, ok?" Sam said. Dean sighed and stopped talking, but didn't look him in the eye. "I am not going to slink off in the middle of night like that Dean. I wouldn't do that. I have never done that."

And Sam never had, Dean had to give him that. The night Sam left – before the fight had really started – he had all but begged Dad to be happy for him, or to at least accept what was happening.

"You can call anytime," Sam had said, not getting defensive in the face of his Father's displeasure, but rushing, for once, to tame it. "I can still research. And on breaks - "

"You walk out that door, don't you ever come back," John had said, coldly, finally, and God Dean remembered Sam's eyes. The hope and warmth vanished in a blink, replaced with a steely resolve.

Dean tried not to think of that night often, and when he did, it was often to stoke his own anger towards Sam, his own resentments. It was only now, years later, he really listened to what Sam had been saying all those years ago.

 _You can call anytime. I can still research. And on breaks…_

Sam hadn't made that offer because he would have missed hunting. His offer was his way of telling Dad he didn't want to leave the family, of asking for accommodation, acceptance. A son appealing to his Father.

It had been easier in some ways to believe Sam had left easily, angrily, and without looking back, that nothing Dean or Dad could have done would have made a difference.

Sam's jaw was working and Dean could tell he was both fighting back emotion and trying to figure out what to say.

"You know, at Stanford, I wanted to call you so many times," Sam said finally, trying to make his brother understand, because he never did, how important he was. "When I met Jess, when I aced the LSAT, when I spent Christmas alone in my dorm room. God, there was this one point I was so broke I was living off saltines and I was pulling all-nighters studying or working at that coffee shop. Man, it was so hard. Not having Dad. Not having you – Dean I never wanted to cut you out of my life."

There was a moment of naked hope and anguish on Dean's face and it blew Sam's mind that Dean didn't know this. How was it Dean seemed to understand everything about Sam except for how much Sam loved him? How was he so blind to this one point? How could Sam make him understand?

"Before I met Jess, I almost left. More than once," Sam admitted softly. It was almost as had to remember those days as it was to talk about them with Dean. He always worried expressing any uncertainty regarding Stanford, even to himself, perhaps especially to himself, would mean that he had made the wrong decision, that he had walked away from his family, his life, for nothing.

Dean cleared his throat, an image of Sam walked around Stanford alone, missing his family, hitting him. Other kids had their parents to call when money got tight, when pressure got to much, when they needed advice. Sam was alone. Dean had left Sam alone.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Dean said. Sam sighed and smiled that fond smile Dean could never quite figure out.

"You don't have to apologize, Dean," Sam said.

"You could have called." Dean would have picked up. He would have done whatever Sam asked.

"I'm not telling you this to make you feel bad," Sam said. "All that aside, I loved school. I'm glad I went. I want to go back someday."

Dean flinched at that, but Sam held his gaze and stilled him with a hand on his arm. "I might go back to school, Dean, but I would never leave without talking to you. I would never leave you without a way to get in touch with me. I never want things to be the way they were. Not with Dad, but especially not with you. I won't let them be."

There was a fierceness in Sam's expression that Dean remembered from Sam talking about Stanford before he left and when Sam set his mind to something, Dean thought hopefully, it tended to happen. He was stubborn like that.

"Alright," Dean softly feeling guilty now and embarrassed. "Just bring your phone next time."

Sam threw some more laundry at Dean. "Wash your own boxers next time."

 **Please review, kind reader! It really means a lot to hear your thoughts.**

 **A/N If you're new here, my idea here is to do a little one-shot for each episode in Season 1. In my bio you can see links to one-shots from from episodes 1x01-1x03. These stories are all in the same universe, but do not need to be read in order.**


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